the explanation of it
sinks deeper yet it is rare without
any manifestation.

it is difficult for me to
unlatch the locks
and throw away the keys
into an unknown abyss.

the hot star and
the apple of moon
now rise in the distance.
tonight, there will
be all that is troubled
and no solace could ever *****
us in its promise.

it is the ending of things
and right even before
its emergence, you can feel
it in the way things play
themselves out like a
premeditated plot or a fool's
unchanging ploy.

the wobbly table, stirring all
glass and fluids -
the soft rumble of the feral
over the rooftop -
the remaining enigma of an
unfinished epistle
teeming with infinities -
the door left ajar by
the tenor of wind -
a raked tumble of singed leaves;
the swarm of cocooned light
over the bland asphalt.

i have seen hands lose their
taut grip upon things they swore
with ease to never let go
as a dog is wan without its
asphyxiating leash,
as a bird is free without
the conundrum of metal,
as we are both
free
as though we do not know each other - fretting for answers raw without
questions, or scurrying through
the fixation of so many pleasures
just to diminish whatever it is
that remains insatiable, or holding back the flight of things
and consigning them to slow exeunt.